by D S Kane
Pesi looked at his brother as if he was waiting for approval. None came. Tariq’s eyelids drooped. Pesi gulped and looked back at his notes. “The cell we established in New Jersey is where the most highly skilled of our people are.” He pressed a key on the remote and the next Powerpoint slide popped on the screen. “They all have advanced degrees in relevant areas. All worked in Northern California for Silicon Valley electronics firms until America’s personal computer industry moved to India. They will assemble the bomb parts for transport to Lewisburg for final assembly with the warhead matériel.”
He showed another slide with the assembly packing list and set-up instructions. Pesi concluded, “The entire operation should be complete within four days. Not only will the President be in Washington, but also he will be meeting at the White House with the head of the Israeli government.” Pesi beamed at this last statement, pointing to a slide projected off his computer’s hard drive. The map on the projection screen showed two red arrows, one entering the United States near Toronto, one entering the United States close to Tucson, Arizona, and a set of olive-colored arrows coming through Seattle, Washington, Miami, Florida, and Washington, DC.
Pesi concluded, “So it appears that the Sashakovich woman either knew nothing or has chosen not to reveal anything to those who cast her out.”
Tariq realized his younger brother had finally done something right. The American spy wouldn’t be needed.
Tariq asked questions about the timing of subsequent events but Pesi preferred to dwell on his successes to date, as if begging for praise from his brother.
Tariq remained silent, not yet ready to congratulate Pesi. So much could still go wrong. He tried to quash his impatience.
Pesi shrugged his shoulders. “Let’s break for a while. You look tired from your travels. I’ll have a light meal brought to your room. We can resume tomorrow morning.”
* * *
Just two hours after dawn the next day, thirty men sat perspiring in a hot, brightly lit cavernous warehouse five miles north of Riyadh. Even with portable generators powering the air conditioners, the day outside was so very hot that they provided little relief. The mercs cooked while they awaited orders from Major McTavish.
Although a Brit, Alister McTavish had once been on loan, serving as a lieutenant colonel, to US Special Forces. He’d been one bar short of being promoted to a full bird when a series of budget cuts ten years ago kept him from promotion, and he retired.
He’d been brilliant at one thing: battle tactics and operational execution. He’d drifted for a while, eventually becoming a mercenary to employ the only skill he’d practiced since graduation from the Naval Postgraduate School in Monterey, California, twenty-five years ago.
McTavish held the GNU radio and cell phone in his left hand and listened.
“Major, this is Cassie. We’ve just landed. Should be at your location in less than ninety minutes. How many armed unfriendlies are there at the compound?”
“From Major LeFleur’s video, we estimate fifty,” McTavish growled back, a slight Scottish twang coloring his speech.
“What’s your status at this time?”
“We’re ready to move out when you arrive. Since the compound is in a remote area, far from the city’s center, we don’t anticipate anyone seeing or hearing the operation. Even if they did, normal telephones and cell phones will be nonfunctional during the blackout. We expect to complete our work without interruption from the police or military.”
“What’s the plan to breach the facility?”
“We found the gardeners Houmaz uses to keep the landscape pretty. Got them tied up, so to speak. Four of my men speak Arabic. They’re in the gardeners’ uniforms. I’ve got them, plus eleven more ready to hide in the back of the gardeners’ truck. Today is garbage day, and the Saudis employ Palestinians to do their garbage pick-up. We stopped a garbage truck and have the rest of my men in the back of the truck. Fortunately for us, it was the start of the day so there’s no refuse smelling up the truck. We’ve been monitoring all radio broadcasts around the city and, so far, no one’s noticed the missing trucks.”
“I don’t want my presence, complete with my bodyguards, to impact the coming operation, so we’ll go with the garbage.”
* * *
As their rental car sped over the dusty road to the warehouse, Cassie watched the MPEG movies of the torture interrogations sent with LeFleur’s email. She now had a roughly sketched map of the compound, listing room by room how each was used. Major McTavish also had a copy of LeFleur’s email so he could ready his men for their assault.
It was as if there were two separate people inside her. Watching the torture movies LeFleur made had disgusted her. But she also felt alarm—the actual torture left her licking her lips as she watched the video. The voice in her head demanded retribution, and she realized she was at the brink of a breakdown. She resisted as best she could. Weren’t those LeFleur had tortured also human? What had gone so wrong to make them this way? And now, trying to see the difference between them and what she was becoming, she was sickened to the point of nausea. Realizing her state, she shook her head to clear it. She whispered, “What’s become of me? Before Riyadh a few months ago, I was a normal woman. But no normal person could feel this way.”
The content of the movies would alter her plans for Pesi Houmaz. There would be no head shot to kill him. If there was any chance the Houmaz brothers planned an operation on US soil, then she had to keep him alive to find out what he knew and let US authorities know. Even though her own country had showed her no compassion, didn’t help her in her time of need, she didn’t want innocent people to die. On her last trip to Riyadh, she’d been a patriot, and the United States was still her country.
To accommodate her change in plans, she’d visited a hardware store and acquired other tools while they were leaving the airport in Riyadh. Her new plan both revolted and excited her. She’d discussed the change in tactics with her four bodyguards. They had no remorse about what she requested. The special items were carried by Lester, a master at interrogation.
* * *
The gardening truck led the way, with the garbage truck trailing two hundred feet behind. Both traveled at thirty miles per hour. In the back of the garbage truck with almost twenty ripe, sweating men and women, Cassie found herself more comfortable with female mercenaries around her, most built like Judy Hernandez. Less casual than the men, they responded to Cassie’s presence with nodding heads. Cassie smiled in return. Even better, they were well prepared, disciplined, and highly skilled. She watched them prepare their weapons, load clips of ammo into them, and talk about the tactics and operations they expected to use in the upcoming battle.
The women systematically checked each other’s body armor and prepared their minds for the havoc of an operation. She counted eight women, all taller and much heavier than her.
All wary, yet each behaved as if this was just another day.
For Cassie, this was the only day.
They drove for an hour through a dust storm, winds blowing sand into the back of the garbage truck. It choked every soldier despite the dust masks covering their faces. It blinded them. They rubbed their eyes, further compromising their ability to see. As they approached the compound, the garbage truck slowed to a crawl and the gardeners’ van sped toward the compound’s gates.
At the entry gate, two guards emerged from a small brick structure and motioned for the van to stop. Captain Halid Sambol, an olive-skinned merc from Jakarta, spoke Arabic. He sat in the driver’s seat, rolled down the side window, and waited for the guards.
A guard leaned in through the window and asked, “Where’s Omar?”
Sambol replied, “He’s sick today. Or maybe he’s just lazy.” He laughed. “I’m Achmad and this is Abdul. We’re here this time only, provided Omar sees fit to show up next time.”
There was a long silence. The guard turned and spoke to the other guard. The other nodded and reached up, pressing a button at the
top of the guard hut’s roof. The compound’s gate opened. Sambol looked across to Lieutenant Henry Harrington in the passenger’s seat. “That worked like a charm. Everybody ready to roll?” Harrington nodded. Sambol drove the van across the gateway, stopping before they had cleared into the compound’s large paved atrium. “Signal the garbage truck, Henry. On my mark, everyone out. Now! Go, go, go!”
* * *
A guard entered the conference room and handed Tariq a message stating, “Satellite communications between Riyadh and the Afghanistan training grounds are now working. But we failed to raise the mountain outpost.”
Tariq asked the guard, “When did you receive this message?”
The guard said, “Just now. We’ve been trying to raise them for about an hour.”
Tariq’s brow creased with concern. “Why weren’t we told?”
Pesi laughed and said, “In the previous week similar communications problems have occurred twice for brief periods. It’s probably nothing.” He rubbed his eyes. “I need a break.” He walked off and closed the door to the bathroom, leaving Tariq alone, seated at the conference table.
* * *
Five armed soldiers cleared from the van in seconds. They used customized silencers on their Ruger Mini-14s to quietly kill twenty-six guards before any could utter a cry of alarm. The pops from the silenced guns weren’t noticed by the guards until it was too late.
Seconds after the van emptied, the garbage truck plowed through the open gate and slammed into the guards’ gatehouse, crushing it, flattening the two guards inside. Twenty-five mercenaries emptied from the garbage truck just inside the concrete walls of the compound. Cassie and her four bodyguards popped out with the mercs. By the time their feet hit the sand, the battle raged.
A pitched skirmish ensued between the mercs and several guards who found themselves confused and surprised. Most of the hostiles had only knives—they hadn’t expected something like this. When they tried to shout to their peers, the mercs cut them down before they could raise an alarm. Cassie saw one of the mercs, a young woman, fall onto the dust, bleeding from a wound to her gut from a thrown knife that somehow missed her Kevlar vest. As Cassie ran, her own gut roiled, as if in sympathy with the pain the merc felt. The voice in her head screeched, telling her what to do, where to look. She followed its instructions. On your left! She swiveled, raising her Ruger, and without willing it, the gun fired and took down one of the Houmaz guards. Now, behind you! She dove to the ground and fired back, barely evading and killing another guard. The voice saved her life as she ran, weaving her way toward the compound’s main building, followed by her bodyguards who tried to catch up with her.
The mercenaries punched forward to the living quarters on the east side of the building. The guards held the conference center’s exterior on the west side, moving forward toward its entrance in the building’s middle. Major McTavish motioned for a team of ten to outflank them on the west side. Cassie watched the maneuver in progress and moved toward the center of the building near the front door. JD, Lester, Shimon, and Ari ran and caught up, forming a human shield around her.
A lone group of guards on the building’s left side—fewer than ten but she wasn’t sure of their exact number—fired at her and her bodyguards. Lester tackled Cassie, throwing her to the ground behind a short wall, out of the line of fire. Her other three bodyguards bunched low around her, dragging Cassie further into cover, under a cloistered roof overhang.
She could see the front door, twenty feet away, her objective. The compound’s guards, all dressed in gray outfits, had managed to retrieve automatic handguns. Armed and trained, now they were a formidable force.
Lester called McTavish on the GNU radio. “Alister, we’re pinned east of the conference room door. Please send help.”
Seconds later, mercs lobbed a cluster of hand grenades into the guards. The hostiles panicked, shouting instructions in Arabic to each other, too far away for Cassie to hear over the grinding sound of the battle. As they flew away from the grenades, it made them easy targets for the waiting mercs.
Cassie and her bodyguards sprinted toward the door of the compound’s conference center, where she believed Pesi Houmaz waited. The shooting was less sporadic now as the battle wound down.
LeFleur had told them the conference center was soundproofed.
Just before she and her bodyguards entered, she ordered them to follow very close behind her so the door to the outside would be open for the briefest possible time. They entered without making noise and Ari relatched the door silently. As it closed, sounds of the diminishing battle vanished.
Her entire life had been ruined by the Houmaz family. Cassie licked her lips, as if she was dying of thirst in the desert and had found a well. She wanted Pesi Houmaz dead so much she could taste it. But first, she’d need information. She had to take Pesi alive.
Inside, she sniffed the air and smelled the acrid odor of unbathed bodies. One of them was hers, but the spices from Middle Eastern cooking, cumin, turmeric, cardamom, and cinnamon indicated others were here now or had been shortly before.
She opened the door from the hallway. The man seated at the large table looked up. Cassie and her body guards sprinted into the conference room. The man drew a semiautomatic pistol he had strapped to his leg.
She watched him start to raise the gun. She dove for cover, firing her silenced Ruger at him as she dropped to the hardwood floor. He managed to fire back and pieces of the conference room splintered into the air, showering her. Lester was right behind her and he dropped flat as he took aim. She got a shot off and it hit her target’s forearm. The flesh exploded, bits blowing back onto the room’s white board. He screamed in pain and dropped his gun on the floor. Cassie was surprised her aim was true.
She stared directly into his eyes, coming to a decision. Once again, the bullet she fired found its mark in the other forearm. The limb also exploded into crimson shreds of flesh. Now there was no way he could defend himself. She could kill him slowly and painfully, just as he’d wanted to do with her.
She smiled at him, examining his beard, gray hairs within it showing his age. “How rude of me,” she said in Arabic. “I haven’t introduced myself. You must be Pesi Houmaz. I am Cassandra Sashakovich. To you I am death incarnate. You don’t have to be polite. The pleasure will be all mine.”
The man’s eyes involuntarily opened wide as he stared back. He was sinking into shock from his wounds.
* * *
Thirty feet away in the restroom, Pesi sat on the toilet. The muted gunfire from the courtyard alerted him. Drawing the semiautomatic pistol from his shoulder holster with his right hand, he wiped himself swiftly with a wad of toilet tissue in his left hand, then got up and rebelted his pants.
He walked to the door and cracked it open. Looking out, he saw one of the intruders. Pesi fired at JD, grazing his backside. JD screamed in pain and Pesi bolted from the restroom with a shooter’s stance, reconnoitering the hallway.
Pesi was adrenalized, excitement pouring into his system as he saw another stranger. He fired but missed, and Ari turned, returned fire, putting a bullet into Pesi’s gut. He yelled, dropping the gun. Shimon and Lester dragged Pesi into the conference room. Cassie looked at the younger, beardless man in confusion. This one’s nose was flatter, his skin lighter. “Who is he?” she asked Tariq.
Lester repeated the question and placed the barrel of his Ruger against the shooter’s chin. In pain, he groaned, “I’m Pesi Houmaz.”
It dawned on her she had both of them here. Tariq hadn’t been buried in the caves. She smiled with pure delight. She didn’t need both. She could use one as an example.
She could see Pesi’s wound was likely fatal, but he would take at least a half hour to bleed out, certainly more than enough time for her to complete her work. She told the Mossad agents, “Please apply tourniquets to Tariq’s wounds, and Dermabond glue to Pesi’s. We don’t want them dying before we’re done.”
She pointed to the conference ro
om chairs. “As we discussed, remove all their clothes and bind them into chairs. Lester, turn on the camera and record this interrogation.” He positioned the camera on a tripod and turned it on.
Tariq yelled at her, his voice hoarse and beginning to fail, “You’re an obscene whore, serving the interests of imperialists who want our oil and don’t care what happens to our people. Your death would have served as an example, if not to your people, then to ours.”
She knew this much was true. But there was more. She replied, “Yes, I guess it might. But how can you justify the murder of innocents, especially children?”
He glared at her. “No one is innocent in your world. Our best weapons are brave men and women who sacrifice themselves to make our point.” He hawked and spat into Cassie’s face.
She wiped his spittle from her cheek. She could barely control her hands as she opened her knapsack and removed a hammer, a belt sander, and other tools. It took a deep breath to center herself. She donned surgical gloves and a dentist’s face-shield. “Even if what you say gives you justification, it creates people like me who want to torture the torturers. I’m just as evil as you are. You created me. Now it’s an eye for an eye, me and the two of you. And there will be many more like me if you don’t learn another way to make your point.”
Tariq tried struggling but with his arms shredded below his elbows, his movements accomplished nothing.
She shook her head. “What you failed to realize is that there was a reason why the United States funded your acts of terror. My government used you. You were tools of the very men you despise. Shame on you.”